


Now Come the Days of the King, May They be Blessed.

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Series: Suilad Aran Thranduil [41]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:49:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bard denies his destiny, Thranduil remembers his past, and the people know best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Come the Days of the King, May They be Blessed.

**Author's Note:**

> Galen and Taeglin have worked their way into my permanent headcanon list, apparently. So that is something that happened.

**_“I am not a king!”_** Bard roars at Thranduil one evening, when the bodies of the dead have been buried or burned, when sorrow’s grip has lessened only enough to burden but no longer choke. **_“I am a bargeman, for pity’s sake!”_**

“You _were_ a bargeman. And _now_ you are a king.” Thranduil replies, calmly, coolly, ever in control.

* * *

_“Aran n-“_

_“Don’t call me that!! He is king! Not I!” Thranduil roars, an accusing finger pointed at the figure prone on the ground. “He is king.”_

_“He_ was _king.” Galion replies, refusing to break in the face of Thranduil’s anger and grief, he has witnessed this before. “You are king now. It is to you the crown falls.”_

_“No.” Thranduil snarls, tears stinging his eyes._

_“Will you leave your people leaderless? Will you bury your father and turn your back on us? Abandon us as we never abandoned you?”_

_“I-“_

* * *

“I am not a king.” Thranduil blinks, his mind brought back to the present, to the man pacing before him. “I am not.”

“Then leave. Take your children and leave. Go far away from here.” Thranduil says, a cold edge to his voice.

“What?” Bard asks, incredulous.

“As long as you stay, the people will look to you. You slew the dragon, you lead the people to Dale. You forged an alliance with the elves. You procured your promised dues from the dwarves. As long as you stay, the people will look to you.”

* * *

_“You are king now!” Galion roars, removing the circlet from Oropher’s head, and pressing it against Thranduil’s chest until Thranduil’s hands take it from him. “Your people are dying! Will you do nothing? I never took you for a coward!!”_

_“ **Galen was meant to rule in father’s stead! Not I**!” Thranduil screams, hands tightening around the band in his hands and tearing it apart. “I was never to be king.”_

_“Go, then, run away! Abandon the people your brother died to protect. Abandon the people your sister died to protect. Abandon the people your father died to protect. Abandon everyone who has ever loved you, has ever cared for you. Abandon everyone who took you and yours in from the cold and gave you **everything,** go!” Galion growls, turning his back and walking away._

* * *

“But I’m not a king.” Once more Thranduil is drawn from his memories.

“You were not a king, Bard. Now you are.” Thranduil says with a bored sigh, staring forlornly at his empty wine pitcher, Galion had cut them off hours earlier, to Thranduil’s continued disappointment.

“ ** _No.”_**

“Bard. How do you think anyone becomes a king? We’re not born kings, Lord Bowman, except in the extraordinary instances where we are. You think me born a king?” Thranduil asks, a smirk forming on his face as he looks up to the human. “You think my father was born a king? We were not even born royalty.”

“But-“

“You are a king, Bard. Whether you are willing to accept it or not. The crown is not meant to sit comfortably, Lord Bard. It is heavy and itchy, and oft an unwelcome weight, even when it weighs as light as a feather. Even when it does not sit upon your head at all. It is not the duty of a king to be comfortable, Lord Bard, only to seem it. I never wanted the crown.” Thranduil’s smirk turns sad and he looks away.

“What?” Bard exclaims, eyes wide. “But you-“

“I have had three thousand years to accept my position. There are times, still, where I wonder if I made the right decision. I was given the choice to walk away, as you are now being given that same choice. Standing over the body of my father, his crown in pieces on the ground having been broken by my own hands, his blood in my hair, and on my face, and dripping from my hands. I was given a choice. My first command as king was to pull back, leave the dead and the dying. And I will tell you now, it has never gotten easier.” Thranduil turns his sharp eyes to Bard, holding the man’s gaze. “You will stumble, you will fall, and there will be times you don’t want to get back up. But you will. For your sake, your children’s or the sake of your people. You will. That is what makes you a king, Bard. That is what makes your people look to you. You lost everything in the attack, but the clothes on your back and your children, yet you have not stopped fighting. If you are not a king, Bard, you will walk away.”

“My children and I will die if we leave!”

“So will your people.” Thranduil replies, coldly. “I tire of this. You will find your way, or you won’t. But if you come to your senses, and decide to take up the crown, come find me.” Thranduil says, turning his attention to reports on the table before him. Bard knows a dismissal when he hears one, but he stays rooted to the spot, hands clenched into trembling fists. “Was there something else, _bargeman_?” Thranduil asks, placing particular emphasis on the title, though he does not look up.

“Fine. But if I am king, Dale will not be the battlefield where Mirkwood and Erebor meet to determine the winner of your pissing contest!” Bard growls, earning a surprised laugh from Thranduil.

* * *

_“Galion,” Thranduil calls before Galion can take more than a few steps, “call them back. Call them back! We are done for this battle. Leave the dead.”_

_“Sire?” Galion asks, freezing in place and turning his head._

_“For as long as the people wish it. Go!”_

_“Yes, my king.”_

* * *

 “Truly, Lord Bard, you’re going to be a great king.” He praises, looking up to smirk at Bard again. “A great king, indeed.”

* * *

_“Thranduil?” Thranduil turns slowly to face his friend, drawing his eyes away from the portrait of his father. “Your father would be proud of you.”_

_“Would he?”_

_“You’re alive and Mirkwood still stands. What more could he ask of you?”_

_“Many things, Galion.” Thranduil replies, turning back to the portrait. “Many things.” Galion sighs, his eyes roaming over the portrait of the late king. He shakes his head._

_“We followed your father into the war because we trusted him, but it was you that carried us out of it. You are our greatest king. Do not dishonour us by doubting our judgement. Your father had his turn, Thranduil. You are not him, do not be like him, or you will lead us into ruin.”_

_“Galion? Thank you.” Thranduil says, after a long silence, earning a snort from Galion._

_“Don’t thank me yet. I only sought you out to inform you there is paperwork awaiting you in your study, the Captain of the Guard also wishes to speak with you. Oh, and orders have been given, you’re not allowed a drop of wine until you’ve eaten breakfast. I shan’t have a repeat of last month.”_

_“Goodness, you do spoil me, don’t you?” Thranduil replies, an exasperatedly fond smile forming on his face. “Come along then, the least you can do is escort me to my doom.” He says with a sigh._

_“What are friends for?”_

_“What, indeed.”_


End file.
